


The water passed through his shoes (And the stars through his soul)

by coconutcranberries (orphan_account)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, How Do I Tag, Multi, New Souls, New York, Old Souls, SO MUCH FLUFF, Teacher Derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-24 02:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2565368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/coconutcranberries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is an old soul. That’s what they call it, when you’ve wandered this earth, and many more, a hundred times over. Of course, it doesn’t have to be a hundred; it just has to be more than once. More than one lifetime, and your soul is old, wizened, grey instead of bright silver. </p>
<p>Derek is fond of this lifetime. This time, Derek’s family is alive, and his childhood home stands tall. This time, Derek lives in a grey house in New York with his sister, and a cream-coloured cat with soft orange paws. </p>
<p>His sister is an old soul; families tend to stick to the same cycle. He’s not so sure about the cat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The water passed through his shoes (And the stars through his soul)

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a picture of Tyler Hoechlin witha typewriter and was inspired, and then this happened. I'm planning on five chapters, and I shall add more tags as I go! Hopefully, it's not too awful :) 
> 
> No warnings necessary, just harmless fluffiness (And some swear words). 
> 
> Any kudos or comments would be very much appreciated :3

Derek is an old soul. That’s what they call it, when you’ve wandered this earth, and many more, a hundred times over. Of course, it doesn’t have to be a hundred; it just has to be more than once. More than one lifetime, and your soul is old, wizened, grey instead of bright silver. 

Derek is fond of this lifetime. This time, Derek’s family is alive, and his childhood home stands tall. This time, Derek lives in a grey house in New York with his sister, and a cream-coloured cat with soft orange paws. 

His sister is an old soul; families tend to stick to the same cycle. He’s not so sure about the cat. 

It’s a cold, wet Tuesday, not so different from the thousands of cold, wet Tuesday’s that he’s seen before. New York is busy, bustling, a crowded city full of bright people, each one shining with past lives. Derek slips down the sidewalk, feet sliding on the wet stone, and stumbles under a nearby awning.

The rain is coming down in sheets, soaking the sea of people immediately. Water drips over the side of the awning in a quiet cascade. Derek watches the downpour, and idly wonders if he remembered to turn the stove off. 

He checks his wristwatch; there’s plenty of time to kill before he has to be in a lecture hall. The light glints off of his watch in the window behind him, catching his eye. Derek turns slowly, and shudders as water drips down the back of his collar. 

It’s an antique shop. The window is crammed full of bronze and brass, bulky ornaments and thick, folded drapes. There’s an African mask hanging on the back wall, and several ornate chandeliers swing lightly from the ceiling. 

Derek lets a small smile steal over his face. He loves antique shops, loves the smell and the familiar sights of old things- now antiques, that used to litter his home. His dust allergy usually forces him to avoid antique shops, but there’s something magical about them. They feel like stepping into the past, discovering treasure troves of familiarity. 

The chime above the door tinkles as he pushes it open, and Derek takes in the interior with a small smile. It’s empty and there is no one behind the counter, but Derek can hear muffled curses coming from a door at the back of the shop. 

Derek wanders for a while, brushing his fingertips across the oak bookshelves; an antique grandfather clock stands proudly in the corner, quiet and timeless; several paintings catch his eye, their colours faded but no less beautiful; a typewriter sits in the centre of an oval table, surrounded by bells and thimbles and glass ornaments. 

It’s the typewriter that gives Derek pause. He stops briefly in his perusal of the store and redirects his attention to the table. He had a typewriter, once upon a time, a pale blue number with cream tiles. 

There’s a clatter from behind him, and a stream of curse words as several things- cardboard boxes, by the sound of it, fall to the floor. 

Derek swivels round, his hand an inch from the typewriter, and a young man trips out of the door behind the counter. “Fuck, shit, fuck, I can’t believe I have to put up with this- oh.” 

The man comes to an abrupt stop as he spots Derek, mouth hanging open. Derek raises an eyebrow, and watches the man’s pale skin flush red, colour rising in his cheeks. 

“Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here. I guess the chime must be broken or something,” He casts a look to the door, where the wind-chimes are still swaying gently. “Ah, right.” 

Derek smiles a little, because there’s something about this young man, the embarrassment maybe, or the clumsiness, that’s endearing and intriguing and _bright_. 

“It’s fine, I was just browsing. No harm done,” Derek assures him. The man- and he’s more of a boy than a man, really, but not too much of a boy- bites his lip and nods. Derek watches the colour bloom in his bottom lip with a dazed feeling. 

“Okay, well,” The man says. His expression shifts from anxious to mischievous, a cheeky grin lighting up his face. “See anything you like?” 

Derek definitely does. Instead of dragging the man across the counter, Derek hums and tilts one shoulder at the typewriter. It’s an impulse buy; Laura will be so proud of him. 

“Do you own this place, then?” Derek asks, curious, as the man rings up his purchase. His typewriter is already boxed up, and Derek doesn’t want to leave quite yet. 

The man outright laughs, and Derek feels the air get lodged in his throat. It’s a very lovely sound. 

“Nah, that’s Deaton’s job. My name’s Stiles, I’m one of the lowly employees that got suckered into doing the all-day shift,” Stiles pulls a face at the register. 

“What’s so bad about that?” Derek grins as Stiles pulls another face. “I would love to work somewhere like this.” 

“Yeah?” Stiles sounds genuinely curious. “I guess it’s not so bad, but there’s a bunch of boxes back there full of items to be appraised, and I can neither confirm nor deny that they might be all over the floor right now.” 

Derek laughs quietly, checking the tape on his box- he doesn’t want to drop it in the ocean that used to be New York- and when he looks back up, Stiles is staring at him. 

Derek swallows. “Don’t you have anyone here to help you out?” 

“Uh, yeah, usually,” Stiles shuffles a little, hands tapping against the counter. “But today it’s just Scott and I, and he’s out wooing the girl in the coffee shop down the street until   
his lunch break is over.” 

“It sounds like you could use some company,” Derek says, and then almost hits himself in the face with his brand new typewriter because seriously, what the hell is he saying? 

Stiles’ eyes widen, and a tiny smile pulls at the corner of his lips. “I- yeah, uh, I…” 

Derek’s wristwatch beeps loudly and insistently in the quiet that follows and Derek jumps back, unaware that he’d been leaning closer to Stiles. Stiles looks just as startled as 

Derek feels, blinking widely and hurriedly busying himself with the register. 

Derek glances down at his watch and swears; he’s late for his class. 

He looks back up to find Stiles holding a bag and a receipt, a wry smile on his face. “I take it you have to go?” 

Derek grimaces. “As much as I would love to be your company, I have a class full of idiots to teach.” He says, and Stiles laughs, tucking the receipt into his hand with warm, long fingers. Derek accepts the bag shakily, and makes it almost to the door before Stiles makes a noise of protest behind him. 

Turning, Derek raises a quizzical eyebrow. 

Stiles turns red. “It’s nothing, I just, I don’t know your name.” 

“Uh, Derek,” Derek says sheepishly, “Derek Hale. Sorry, I thought I mentioned that.” Stiles grins at him, shaking his head, and Derek feels warm. 

The warm feeling vanishes once he gets outside, his jacket growing damper with each passing second. He tries to pull a disgusted face at the sky, but his mouth is fixed firmly in a smile. 

It’s not until he’s at home, smiling down at the number on the receipt, that he realises what it was about Stiles that was so endearing, intriguing and bright, _so bright_. 

His soul was the purest, cleanest silver that Derek had ever seen. He was a new soul.

**Author's Note:**

> Predictable, I know :) I really love antique shops, but the dust makes me cough! 
> 
> Thanks in advance!


End file.
